


Trigger Discipline

by miasmata



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Aftercare, Blow Jobs, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Hair-pulling, Light Dom/sub, Mentions of Impact Play, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, gender neutral reader, i try and fail to keep my kinks out of a simple bj fic, the temptation to tag this as dante/reader/ebony is so strong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22426744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miasmata/pseuds/miasmata
Summary: If you had bothered to listen, you would have heard the metallic slide of Dante removing the magazine, the clatter of him tossing it carelessly back into the nightstand, the scrape as he pulled the slide back and removed the chambered round, double checking to be certain there was no ammo left.But you weren't listening; you were too busy greedily fitting more of him into your mouth.
Relationships: Dante (Devil May Cry)/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 92





	Trigger Discipline

You've been bad all night.

Never the serious kind - never the kind that makes Dante pull away from you for very long or level you with that tone that kicks you right out of playtime and back into yourself. Only the good kind of bad that makes him drag you where he wants you by your hair or hit you (open-palmed, the sting fading to warmth that melts across your face, your ass, your thighs, just a fraction of his real strength - and knowing that, knowing the restraint it takes him makes you even hotter for him than before) or whatever else he wanted from you that night.

What he wanted tonight was to make you cum - on his fingers, his tongue, his cock, however he could get you. It had been nice the first time he’d sent you hurtling into a mind-numbing, limb-rattling orgasm with just his fingers - more than nice. 

But it was all on his terms. Lying back and taking every torturous glide of his tongue against your heat at his discretion. Hands by your side. No touching. Certainly no burying your hand in his white locks and pulling hard, just the way he likes, jutting your hips into his mouth.

Dante's surprised grunt is muffled between your legs. He doesn’t pull away from you - no, he does the opposite, he presses his mouth against you, meeting you with the same force, the same eagerness, and he suckles until your release wipes your mind blank and you’re left slack in his arms.

Your chest heaves. His hands are heavy and tight on your hips as he pulls away from you. It’s hard to focus on any one thing in particular when your mind is so clouded with pleasure, but when you can finally hone in on his face you find a laugh bubbling up from your chest. It’s as light and airy as you feel, drifting along on the rumpled cloud of his bedsheets. It's not that he couldn't have wrapped his arms around your hips and pinned you where he wants you. It's that he gave you an order. You’re quick to point this out to him when he’s hauling you off of the bed.

You come crashing back to the ground, wobbly on your own two feet, still giggling at his petulant scowl. 

"It's the  _ principle _ ," he snarls at you, pushing at your shoulders until you kneel with your back pressed against the side of his bed. The ease with which you comply twists his lips into a grin. He clicks his tongue and sighs like he's disappointed.

"All that fire, but you really are just a slut, huh?"

You make to snap something back at him, but the first syllable hasn’t left your lips when he’s shoving his fingers past them, pressing them against your tongue. It doesn’t take much insistence for you to lap at them. You know what comes next. He strokes himself from base to tip - slow, like he’s putting himself on display. There’s no more drifting with your head in the clouds - your eyes are sharp, focused on the curve of his cock. Dante knows all too well how much you love his dick. Long, girthy, the head flushed a pretty red. The bastard knows his best angles, too.

You press your tongue to the seam of his fingers, laving over it slowly, trying to show him what he’s missing, what he could have if he’d only step a little closer and let you wrap your pretty lips around his dick.

It doesn’t take much convincing. It never does. You know you’ve got him before he even pulls his fingers out of your mouth when he lets out a breathy little ‘shit’.

He holds your jaw tight in one hand, two fingers wet and slick against your skin. His thumb grazes over your swollen lips. His gaze cuts up to yours. You lick your lips, pink little tongue taunting him, and nod short and quick. It’s all the confirmation he needs. He steps in closer, his glistening head nudging against your lips and  _ shit _ , maybe Dante is right. Maybe you are a slut, because you don’t bother to play any games with his this time. You part your lips and take him in, moaning at the heady taste of him.

Trying to fit his cock into your mouth is an exercise in itself, and though he's told you time and time again that there's no need to take him all down, that he likes the feel of your hand wrapped around what your mouth can’t reach, you’ve seen the gleam in his eye when you’ve taken more of him. You want to see it again. You want him to see what you look like with his cock down your throat, nose pressed to the trimmed hair at his groin. Just the thought of it makes you shift closer to him, jaw slackening.

Pain prickles at the back of your skull, and you realize that Dante’s still trying to wrest control back from you. He holds you firmly in place by your hair. A little peak of pleasure pulses between your legs. You crack an eye open to peek up at him, trying to determine whether he’s just trying to frustrate you or if he plans on using your mouth on his own terms.

The bastard is smirking down at you.

Fine, you think, pressing your tongue up against the underside of his cock. Two can play at that game.

You let him hold you off of him, never as deep in your mouth as either of you want, and work his shaft as best as you can in your limited position. Your tongue slips past your lips, coating parts of him not in your mouth, and while he’s distracted by that you take to massaging his balls, squeezing the base of his cock tight in your hand, stroking every part of him that he won’t let you reach. Your tongue flicks insistently at his slit.

Then you’ve got him. His hand loosens in your hair and it’s just the opportunity you need. You push forward, taking in more of him, and the way that he chokes on his moan makes you so fucking hot. Your hand dives between your legs.

He presses a hand to your shoulder, and you still more on instinct than with any conscious effort. Dante leans to the side and tugs the nightstand open. You shift on your knees, your thighs clenching and unclenching rhythmically, pulsing against the hand you’ve trapped between them. Fuck it. You’ve already pushed him tonight. What’s a little more? What’s another inch?

If you had bothered to listen, you would have heard the metallic slide of Dante removing the magazine, the clatter of him tossing it carelessly back into the nightstand, the scrape as he pulled the slide back and removed the chambered round, double checking to be certain there was no ammo left.

But you weren't listening; you were too busy greedily fitting more of his cock into your mouth, ignoring the ache in your jaw and the burn behind your eyes to press broad swipes of your tongue against the underside. You have no warning when the cold barrel presses against your temple. You freeze. Your eyes cut to the side. You nearly go cross eyed trying to see which gun is pressed to your head. 

It's Ebony. Not that it matters - the way you moan around him isn't any more or less abso-fucking-lutely wrecked because of it.

Dante says something to the effect of “oh fuck yeah, baby,” but you can barely hear him over the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. Your blood is on fire, every pulse of your heart sending molten warmth circulating through your veins. The pulse between your legs is torturous. Your hips shift, jutting up into the air wantonly. You pull back, your swollen lips dragging off of him and pursing around the smooth head of his cock. His head inclines down to watch you, the gun dragging a cold path down to press into your cheek that has the hair on your arms prickling and your nipples peaking painfully.

You bat your eyes and swirl your tongue around his head. Dante’s tongue swipes languidly at his bottom lip. You mimic the action against his cock and  _ suck _ .

Dante groans. The gun presses hard against your cheek. His head falls back. You press forward, swallowing down more of him than before. You swear you hear Dante hiss through his teeth, but the hand between your legs is playing at your entrance while he’s distracted by your wet little mouth and it makes it that much harder to pay attention to anything other than the smell of him, the taste of him, the press of your fingers against your own skin and how you wish that he could be inside of you and in your mouth at the same time.

He’s down your throat, his musky scent in your nose, heavy on your tongue, consuming all of you, and it’s just what you wanted from the start. Your eyes burn, tears blurring your vision and turning it into a landscape of Dante’s skin. Spittle drips down your chin. You settle a hand against his hip and push yourself back until he isn’t hitting your throat any longer, the ache there lessening but leaving a void that you need filled. Before it can get comfortable, you push yourself forward again, tongue searching for more of him. You gag this time. Your eyes squeeze shut. A tear streaks down your cheek, burning hot and leaving a cooling trail in its wake.

The gun twists into your skin. You hear the hammer click back and you freeze, your shoulders hitching. Your eyes flick open. More tears streak down your face. There is a long moment of stillness, nothing but Dante’s heaving breaths, the weight and taste of him on your tongue, and the cocked gun pressed to your face.

Then the gun is gone. You feel the absence a few seconds later than it actually occurs. The backs of his fingers brush against your cheek as a replacement. His palm rests warm against your face, thumbing away a tear track that had worn a path down your skin.

"Too much?" He asks softly, and you whine and shake your head as much as you can with his length still heavy on your tongue. His fingers flex against the back of your head. Through your tear-marred sight you can see the clench and unclench of his jaw, and you appreciate how much restraint it takes for the fingers in your hair to slacken instead of tighten.

You want to break that restraint. You want him to snap, to use your body, to push that gun against the soft, yielding planes of your body and to pull the trigger so you can hear that click that sends your pulse skittering and your breath hitching. You whimper around his cock, pressing your thighs together.

Dante hesitates. You pull back and he lets you - something he regrets when you take him down as deeply as you can again. You squeeze your thumb into a fist and when he hits the back of your throat, fresh tears well - but you don’t gag. You pull back so that his head doesn’t press against the back of your throat, your hand winding up to grip him. You coat your palm in the spittle you’ve left glistening on his cock and press it back to the base, thumb reaching down to sweep across his balls.

“Fuck. Fuck, okay,” Dante says, his breath ragged. He reaches past your head. You rut desperately, shamelessly into your own touch. It’s not enough. You’re flushed and sensitive from the past two orgasms, and each pass of your fingers feels like a lava flow pulsing through you, but it still isn’t enough. Saliva coats your chin. He’s going to press that gun to your head again, you just know it, and your head swims at the thought. You need it.

But he doesn’t press it back to your skin. He reaches down and nudges the barrel against the hand wrapped around the base of him. You give him a firm squeeze and obediently move. The cold weight of the gun presses into your hand. You nearly drop it. Dante laughs, a little breathless, and curls your fingers around the handle for you.

For a moment, you’re frozen. You can’t so much as tongue at his dick as your addled brain struggles to catch up. He taps your shoulder once, twice, and when you don’t tap his thigh in response he knows this is all right, that you’re fine to continue. His hand fists in your hair. Dante drags you up and down his length, and for the first time this night you let him move you without restraint.

Your mind races with possibilities. You could press the gun hard under your jaw, or back into your cheek with enough pressure that he feels it drag against his cock through your skin while he fucks your mouth. You could press it to his skin - feel his muscles jumps, look up through your lashes and your tears to see the way his eyes roll. Could he take it, you wonder, if you pulled the trigger? Would he like it? Would he beg for you to press your fingers into the wound? The thought will scare you later. Now it only makes you twitch and moan, the pressure in your body coiling tighter, hotter than before.

Your hand isn’t enough. You know what you need. The gun is cool between your legs, a sharp contrast to the heat that swells up your chest, and the sensation of the metal makes you buck and rut against it. You shift up onto your knees. Dante’s grip on your hair tightens, the pain arcing down your body in jagged waves. He keeps your head in place. His thrusts snap into the sloppy heat of your mouth. You’re too far gone to consciously realize that he’s close but your body knows his.

All it takes is one more press of your tongue against him, and he breaks. His cum floods your mouth and you struggle to take it all. To his credit, he tries to pull himself a little shallower, give you more room so that his last, desperate hikes of his hips don’t jam his cum down your throat. He rides out his pleasure with your mouth and you swallow what you can, the rest dribbling past your lips and chin.

God, you’re so damn close. He pulls away from you, feet fumbling, and plants himself in front of you on the floor. You grip the gun tighter, grinding yourself furiously against it. A whine frees itself from your throat without your permission. It’s hard to keep your eyes open for more than a few hazy seconds, but when you manage to you’re rewarding with Dante, leaned back on one hand, his chest and face flushed red, stroking at his wilting cock languidly, his fingers twitching as if he wants to match the pace that you fuck yourself with his gun.

“C’mon baby,” he breathes out, and your breath stutters in your chest, your toes curling into the carpet and  _ oh fuck, oh jesus, oh fuck-  _ “let it go. Cum for me.”

That’s all you needed. Your hips still against the barrel of Ebony, your release slicking the gunmetal. Your mouth parts and you eyes rolling, every nerve in your body overtaken by a wash of heat that makes your limbs tremble. Your breath comes in quick little pants.

It takes a long moment for your to realize that Dante’s hands are at your wrists, prying them gently away from you. He takes Ebony from your hands and holds it flat in his palms. There’s a long moment where he just stares. You struggle to catch your breath, swallowing hard, and as you come back to your body you have the thought that oh - maybe that wasn’t so good for the gun.

Dante’s eyes flick up from the gun to you. He dips his head and licks a long, slow stripe against the metal.

Oh.

You whine. Another twinge of pleasure twitches through you, your legs jerking of their own accord. Dante chuckles deeply. He sets the gun aside gingerly and shuffles closer to you. His hands slips past your arms, heavy and hanging limply at your sides from the exertion of your third orgasm, and settle against your side. His thumbs draw adoring circles against your flesh.

When the agency finally seeps back into your limbs, you reach for him. A hand rests on the back of his neck, slick and clammy with sweat. The other plants itself oh his chest, playing with the fine hairs that decorated his chest. You move it slowly, trailing down, down, down his chest, feeling his abdominals jump under your fingers. You smile to yourself and press your lips to his, a little clumsy in your movements.

Dante meets you, tipping his head to make the press more natural, less a clash of teeth and an awkward bump of noses. Your hand strays down farther - you can’t go another round yet, but does he expect to give you a show like that and not be compensated?

He catches your wrist before you can so much as run a finger along him. You wiggle your fingers, stretching them to brush against the cum-slicked head of his cock. His grip tightens.

"No. I'm serious," Dante ducks his head to catch your eye. His eyes are dark, pupils still blown, but there is a heaviness in his brow now that matches his tone. Shame smolders in the pit of your chest. It washes up and over you, staining your cheeks. "Scene's over."

Your fingers curl into your palm. You duck your head down. Dante places your arm gently in your lap. He sets his hands on your shoulders and they glide down your sweat slicked skin as he kneels, grasping lightly at your elbows.

“Hey. Hey, come on. Look at me. I’m not upset.” Dante holds your skittering gaze as much as you’ll allow him too.

“Was that okay?” You ask quietly.

“Yeah, babe. It was great,” Dante strokes your hair away from your forehead. He tips his head up to slot his lips against yours, and you’re certain that he must taste himself, even as chaste as his kiss is. “Nearly sucked my damn soul out.”

You huff a laugh. Dante smiles and pushes forward to kiss your forehead. 

“You need me to stay?” He asks. You think about it, trying to gather your limbs under you to push yourself into a sitting position. Dante sets a hand on your arm and nudges you gently back against the headboard.

“M’okay,” you say, your voice more raspy than you expected it to be.

Dante presses a kiss to your hair. "Sit right there," he tells you, tucking a sheet up to your chest. You draw your limbs in close to yourself. He chuckles, reaching around you to drag another pillow over to your side. “Tuck your ass in. Be right back.”

He doesn’t take long. He tries not to on nights like this, knows that you need the comfort of his presence and the weight beside you, to know that he’s there and he isn’t leaving. It still leaves a pit in your stomach, the worry that he wouldn’t be back. Logically you know it’s ridiculous. This is his home. If anything he would kick you out. It doesn’t have to be rational to worry you.

He comes back having changed into a pair of ratty sweatpants, a water bottle and change of clothes for you tucked into the crook of his arm. The relief of seeing him again bows the line of tension holding your shoulders taut. He holds the shirt - one of his, well-worn and too big for you, perfect for a night shirt - out for you and you raise your arms so he can slip it over you. The water bottle is cool against your palm, and you press it against your jaw for a moment before you actually open it.

“There’s a typo,” you say. Dante’s brow pinches together. He tips his head to the side in question. You clarify, “on Ebony.”

You take a long few swallows of water, nearly draining half the bottle, and when you reach over to set it on the nightstand, Dante breaks into a loud laugh. His eyes crinkle at their corners, an arm slung over his stomach, and you can’t help smiling when you poke him in the ribs to get his attention back to you.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“You found a typo -” he bellows between peals of laughter, “on my gun - while my dick was in your mouth. That’s what you were thinking about?”

“No!” You protest. Your attempts to sound serious are thwarted by your giggles.

“Sure sounds like it, cupcake.”

The bed dips next to you and your head finds his shoulder before he’s even settled. He fishes for the remote on his nightstand and flicks the dinky little CRT TV on. Dante passes you the remote, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and shrugging you closer.

“Whoa,” you say, exaggerating a shocked look. “You sure?”

“Mmhmm.”

“What if I pick  _ Antiques Roadshow _ ?”

Dante shrugs. “Works for me.”

“What about just - straight up, the weather channel?” Another shrug. “ _ My Strange Addiction? Hoarders?” _

“Baby,” he says, tipping his head back against the headboard, “pick something. Anything. I don’t care.”

You landed on a rerun of an old reality show, as trashy as it was entertaining. You only had to remind Dante twice that he had told you to pick whatever you wanted. Between his admission that he thought you would have fallen asleep five minutes into whatever you picked and the weight of his body against yours, the persistent ache in your limbs and your jaw feel like nothing. You settle your head against his chest and drift off slowly, warm, safe, comfortable.

When you wake only an hour later, it’s to Dante grumbling at the TV about how ‘he doesn’t treat her right’, and your sleepy snickering prompts him to stroke your hair and shush you. He murmurs something about how you had better not remember this in the morning.

But you do. Oh, do you ever.

**Author's Note:**

> this is finally out of my drafts thank god.
> 
> it's such a struggle to name this trigger discipline when i know for a fact i'll wind up writing some DT stuff later on and wishing i hadn't used that title on this instead ughhh
> 
> oop i hope keeping the reader gender neutral worked out, it's not how i usually do things so it felt clumsy at times? but yeehaw to new experiences. hope y'all enjoyed!


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